To Shakespeare, on the Year Anniversary
of Going to See My Love for the Last Time
I searched tonight through your sonnets
as though you had written me the code years
before to crack the mystery of what-is-this-inside.
A Shakespearean horoscope in reverse.
I thought you could scratch this itch of loss.
Where are you when I need you, William, or
is it Will, or what did your lover call you when
kissing your eyelids at night when the moon
illuminated your lashes? You've always echoed
back to me experiences of love or wonder or
feelings of loss. Tonight your words ring empty.
Your well-metered lines of loss and love
impress me, no doubt. But no where in there
do you speak of what it's like to feel cured
of grief, setting fire to action again: teaching,
laughing, running, reading, connecting-
and then suddenly finding yourself unable
to comprehend a simple text message or
lift a cup of long-awaited tea to your lips.
You do not write of tea going cold and
friends' messages left unanswered. Damn
you and your beautiful words. I need you.
Where is your sonnet woven from your
thoughts on the anniversary of the death of
your love? I want to read about your despair,
your experience, softened by centuries between
us. I need something to soften the blow.
This past year I ripped open my loss and
spread its slime across my face, my hair,
my eyes, my mouth. I vomited and dry-heaved
words of loss and pushed them hard into my
computer screen. My mind has grown tired
from a full attack sensory replay of those days
from February 28th until March 4th and the
few days that followed. Today I hit stop.
Do you see now? I need to read your
words to keep me from writing my own.
I will not write about it today. I will not
so much as think about it today. Please.
Help me give myself a fucking break. Help
me keep in the words that want to come
out and are not welcome here. Not today.
beard empty bracelet
beeping dry
black plastic green
crisp tube speakers
warm chest
sound waiting hallway
call lips torn
backpack wallet sorry
holes washing blood
embrace bear
hands lights elevator
heels today
not today
not today
not today
Oh, Bridget, your words are so raw with the stab of grief that hits us on anniversaries of our loss. I can do nothing except relate in my own way and send you messages of love.
ReplyDeleteFrom even before the accident, your knowledge and understanding of everything swirling around and your continuous love leading up to and in the very moments around his death have been an anchor for me, Aunt Mary. Thank you for sharing your experience and giving me support as a result.
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